


I Remember You Like Yesterday

by RoseByAnyOtherName17



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Bathing, F/M, Feast, Fluff, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 18:08:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseByAnyOtherName17/pseuds/RoseByAnyOtherName17
Summary: She had to seek him out first, but she didn't mind.





	I Remember You Like Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of these little aftermath fics being written right now, but I had it in my head and it wouldn't go away, so here it is.

She let them have their feast in her honor.

 

“Feast” wasn’t quite the right word though; it was more whatever they could scrounge up from the cellars that had, miraculously, been spared in the battle. Anything that didn’t require prep was brought out, the tables cleared for makeshift cots for the wounded, and the survivors gathered together regardless of rank. Jon pulled up a chair next to his friend Samwell’s cot; the (rather fat, Arya thought) man had suffered a deep gash to the leg that his woman (wife?) was stitching up patiently. Their son sat in Samwell’s lap, very seriously cleaning his face of blood and dirt with an already-filthy rag.

 

The Dragon Queen sat with her remaining forces, Missandei and Grey Worm on one side and Tyrion on the other. To Arya’s surprise, Sansa followed Tyrion. She looked rather stiff, surrounded by foreign men, but when Tyrion spoke to her, she softened just a little bit and smiled at Daenerys. A small smile, but a smile nonetheless. Daenerys returned it almost gratefully.

 

Arya remained next to Bran at the high table, the only table left. Most of the Northerners (most of everyone, really) were uncomfortable around him, and so did not approach but to give Arya thanks. She nodded at each one, accepted a swift hug from a small child, but was mostly grateful for the silence that Bran’s presence brought. She did not want to speak, and her little brother (the Three-Eyed Raven, she remembered) did not speak either. The silence was comfortable between them, for all that they had changed; perhaps it was _because_ they had changed.

 

Neither of them were the children that had chased each other around the grounds outside that were now soaked in blood and snow.

 

The Hound was nearby, just a few seats away. He was pretending that he wasn’t keeping an eye on her, but Arya saw right through him. She would be surprised if he wasn’t constantly at her side in the coming days. She had proven over and over that she could take care of herself, and he of all people knew that she could, but she would not begrudge him the need to see for his own eyes that she was alive.

 

There was one man missing, and she would have been afraid if Tormund Giantsbane had not already told her that Gendry was alive. “He fights like a Wildling,” the big man said proudly. “Didn’t stop once.”

 

The silence between her and Bran was not enough to drown out the rumble of the hall, and so she stood abruptly, taking her barely-touched plate with her. “Are you alright?” she asked Bran.

 

He smiled that mysterious smile, the one that had given her chills before when she saw it. Now it only made her feel warm. “He’ll be hungry,” Bran said. For the first time since he had returned as the Three-Eyed Raven, he held out a hand to her. She took it and squeezed, and walked away wondering if he might be coming back to them now that the threat was gone.

 

She stopped to kiss Jon’s forehead, and then to check in on Sansa. Her sister had finally lost all ladylike composure, and was slumped over with her head on Tyrion’s shoulder, eyes closed. They opened briefly when Arya whispered in her ear, a faint smile, and then closed again. She met the dwarf’s eyes and mouthed, “Thank you,” took the Dragon Queen’s hand in hers and said the same to her, as genuinely as she could. “You saved us,” she told the silver-haired woman.

 

“ _You_ saved us,” Daenerys answered. “We just held them back long enough for you to do so.”

 

Arya didn’t know what to say to that, so she bowed her head and continued on her way.

 

Her feet took her right to the forge, and sure enough a fire was lit and the clanging of metal on metal resounded around the stone room. She set her plate down and her wineskin next to it, and approached on silent feet until she could see his face, focused solely on the weapon under his hands and hammer. Her spear, she realized, or half of it; where the rest was, she wasn’t certain.

 

“The battle’s over, you know,” she said quietly.

 

He didn’t flinch, the way she’d known he wouldn’t. He only sighed and set down the hammer. “The spearhead broke off,” he responded. “I wanted to fix it for you.”

 

“I appreciate the thought,” Arya murmured, coming closer, “but there will be time for that later.” She wrinkled her nose at the smell of him. “Gods, you need a bath.”

 

He scowled at the spear, still not looking at her. “You don’t smell so sweet yourself right now.”

 

She fought back a smirk, instead gesturing to the table where she left the food. “Eat with me,” she said, “and then we can fix the other problem.”

 

For a long moment, she thought he was going to keep holding onto the spear. But, finally, his gaze met hers, and he let it go. They sat together, sharing a fork and the wine, knees bumping together. Neither spoke until they were finished, warm from the fire and wine and food. “Come with me,” she said, and led him to her bedchambers.

 

Miraculously, they were almost entirely untouched. She set the stolen smallclothes (from Jon’s room) on her bed and took in the sight that greeted her: windows unbroken, a fire in the fireplace, and a tub in front of it, full of water with soap and two rags resting on the side. She supposed that being the one to kill the Night King had its upsides, and then quickly banished the thought when she noticed the perfume resting on her mantle. _Sansa_. Of course her sister would be the one to do this.

 

She stripped shamelessly, letting her filthy leather armor and smallclothes drop to the floor. When she was naked, she shot a pointed look at Gendry, who followed suit with a put-upon sigh and a slight smile on his lips.

 

The water was still hot; Sansa must have sent someone up the moment Arya left the hall. She sank into it gratefully, Gendry behind her. It was a snug fit, but eventually they settled, her back to his chest and legs bracketing hers. She rested her head back on his shoulder and finally let all the tension leave all of the points where their bodies touched.

 

Every breath he let out curled over her ear, warm and just a little bit ticklish. After several long minutes, he took the little bar of soap and one of the rags and lifted one of her hands. He started there, cleaning between each finger, getting the dirt from under her nails, before slowly running the rag up her arm, scrubbing gently as he went. She watched idly, tiredly, strangely fascinated by way the dried sweat lifted from her skin. She had suffered a head injury, she thought, when she hit the wall up on the battlements. Only now was the fuzziness beginning to return.

 

She warmed inside with every swipe of his hand and the rag on her shoulders, her back when he pushed her forward, her stomach and breasts. He was careful, making her turn in his grasp to dab carefully at the wound above her eye. She met his own while he did, and without thinking, kissed him. It didn’t last, entirely unlike the hurriedness of earlier, with the threat of the horn hanging over their heads. She pulled away to grab the other rag and begin scrubbing him down too, trying to be as gentle with him as he was with her.

 

The water was almost black with their combined filth when they were finished, so she allowed him to drag his fingers through her wet hair one last time before climbing out. She forewent smallclothes, only dragging a long night dress over her head. Gendry dressed in the ones she had taken from Jon; the fit was a little tight, but they fit fairly well all the same.

 

He didn’t hesitate to join her in her bed. She tucked the furs around them both, warding off any chill that might steal its way underneath with them. Unlike earlier, she pulled him on top of her, so that she could run her hand over his shorn head while she looked at him. He settled between her legs easily. She liked how his bare skin slid against hers. She liked how his hips fit into the cradle of her own. She didn’t think that any other man would fit against her like this.

 

“When I saw the spear, I thought you had died,” he whispered, the first words that had passed between them since the forge. “I’m glad that you didn’t.”

 

She smoothed her thumbs over the shadows under his eyes. “I’m sorry I lost it.”

 

He laughed a little incredulously, eyes sparkling. “Yeah, you should be. I worked hard to have that ready for you, and all after you threw knives at my head.”

 

“Past your head, actually. And you liked it.”

 

He laughed again, forehead pressed to hers, and she smiled for the first time that morning. There was bone-deep exhaustion clouding her head now, but she still tilted her head up to press her smile to his, hoping he could feel how much she meant it.

 

“There you are,” he murmured. “I was beginning to wonder if you remembered how to smile.”

 

“I almost forgot,” she admitted, a little too honestly. His kiss this time was a little harder, a little sadder, and she couldn’t let him be. “I’m happy you’re here,” she whispered into the space between their mouths. “I’m happy you came back to me.”

 

Gendry kissed her cheek, her forehead, each of her eyelids. He rolled off of her but took her with him, tucking her into his side and wrapping both arms around her shoulders. “I’m not leaving again,” he promised. “Where would I go, anyways?”

 

They fell asleep that way, legs tangled and her head tucked under his chin.


End file.
